Broken
by all-dem-fandoms
Summary: Beatrice Prior is on the run, she has been since she was dropped into foster care at age twelve. She just wants to get away, where or why Tris doesn't know, but what will happen after she's pulled one too many reckless stunts and is sent to the Washington D.C School for Troubles Minors? Will she deal with the constant coddling or will she just run away again? TRIGGER WARNING!


**I know you're most likely thinking "well gee whiz Hannah isn't two stories enough already?" But I've been writing this in my head for almost a year but I promise I'll try to update Champion and 168 Hours soon (I've got an AMAZING outline for 168 Hours *pats 168 Hours page of outlining notebook* You're going places kid. Anyway so basically in this story I'm targeting the reckless suicidal part of Tris (as seen in Insurgent) So yeah it can get a bit graphic at parts I'm warning you now. **

**disclaimer: Im pretty sure I'm not vroth let me check. *looks in mirror* Nope defiantly too ugly to be her. **

**TRIGGER WARNING DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU FEEL TRIGGERED BY SELF HARM, SUICIDE, BULIMIA OR ANOREXIA. **

Chicago was a cold place to be in the dead of the winter. I had left the Alder family three days ago and my face was already beginning to show up on telephone poles, a picture of my sophomore ID all wide eyes and innocence. Not on the news though. Foster kids are never on the news. Amar, my case worker, said the next time I were to run away I would have a one way ticket to WDCSTM or the Washington DC School for Troubled Minors. I had done my research on this place. It's almost like a prison really with its fancy gates and all. Too bad they're not going to catch me this time. That's right, I'm leaving. I'm actually leaving.

I'm a logical person, very logical really. I have the smart thoughts but it's just hard for me to go through with them. My judgment is always clouded by my past. My past literally haunts me, in my nightmares, in my mind, twenty-four-seven are the memories that are slowly driving me insane. Half of my mind will whisper don't go into that market Beatrice, you always go into that market they'll catch you in there while the other half whispers Go into the market Beatrice your mother used to take you there every Saturday for lunch. It drives me crazy. That's exactly why I need to leave though; I can't have these memories tying me down like a vice. But a part of me doesn't want to let go, more than anything really in my heart I know I want to be a ten year old girl again with a home and a family and a future.

I'm done with being at war with myself though. I need to leave. But I don't want to. But I need to. I burry my face in my hands, and run my long pale fingers through my wavy blonde hair. A draft flows through the abandoned tenement building, penetrating my light wash denim jacket. It almost looks as if this place has been abandoned since the early twentieth century. The frame of the cracked floor-length mirror is intricately hewn from sturdy mahogany. The bed is also mahogany. The room must've belonged to a girl for three old dolls sit in a toy cradle next to a rocking horse. Old buildings like this can be extremely dangerous if you're not careful. I've dealt with my fair share of things in places like this breaking or collapsing. I must be very cautious.

I sigh; it's time for the change, I begin to untie the laces of my black Chucks and kick them off. I slip off my jacket first and place it neatly on the bed. It was my mother's. Everything that belonged to my mother I keep with me whenever I can. It's not much, my jacket, her wedding ring, a necklace made of black gold with a pendent of a raven in flight. My mother loved birds, she would take me to the park when my father would take my brother to museums and point out all the different kinds she saw, blue jays, cardinals, the whole lot. My pocket watch belonged to my father, on the back three ravens are engraved in the silver.

Next comes my trusty red flannel. It was my brother Caleb's. I haven't seen Caleb in four years since I was twelve and he was thirteen. When he got adopted and I didn't. They say that people usually adopt the girl but I guess I was just so messed up that they didn't want me. I wouldn't want me either. I stole the flannel the night I helped Caleb pack for his new home, whenhen he went to the bathroom I snagged it.

After that I peel off my light wash jeans, ripped from continued uses. I've probably had these since I was thirteen.  
On my thirteenth birthday I finally agreed to be put into foster care. Those foster parents bought me these, expensive designer jeans, the first week I was with them. I refused foster care until Caleb left since I didn't want us to get us separated. He was the glue that held me together, he was gone and I agreed to everything. I was dying to find something, anything to cling onto, hobby, a person. Something. After four months with finding nothing to love I agreed. I though it might be better than the county home. I was right and wrong. Some of my foster parents were horrible, abusive, neglecting. Some were amazing, treated me right and gave me a bit of hope. It always ended. I always had to leave in the end. My jeans are just starting to become tight three years later.

Lastly I rid my self of my shirt. I stare at the familiar Nirvana logo and close my eyes. My shirt came from a boy at the county home. He was in for domestic abuse, a year older than Caleb. He was a good kid, stayed very strong even though he was nearly killed the night his father was arrested. That was until he had a panic attack when some kids at school thought it would be funny to lock the scrawny, four eyed boy stuck in the county home in a closet during recess. He totally flipped out, breaking the door with a chair and landing the three boys who put in the closet in the hospital. I didn't blame him.

They sent him to WDSFTM

It feels almost like everything I own is tied to someone else in some way. It's my own damn fault for keeping this stuff. Not anymore though.

So I stand there, the cold nips at the exposed skin of my dangerously thin, small body that resembles something avian. I'm not the ideal girl at all. My ribs, hip and collarbones are pressed right against my skin; the gap between my thighs is wide and I'm not exactly very chesty. I am scarred, from the tops of my thighs fading down to above my knees, my stomach and arms and feet. Not the inside of my wrists though. Wrists are to mainstream, too cliché, they are a stereotype of the sickeningly romanticized depressed teenager. I'm saving my wrists for my last hurrah, for when the gashes are too deep, and the bloodshed too great. It will flow, it will flow, and somewhere some stupid teenage girl will think its poetic, they will think it's a beautiful thing. Maybe it will be, I could make it beautiful somehow in some oddly bitter way. I can paint a picture in red ink, my heart and brain forever encased in a work of art.

I've never had a pretty face, my eyes too large and my nose to long. My hair is golden, wavy and waist-length. It is hair meant for a little girl, that's why I grab the scissors from off the old nightstand. I comb through my hair a few times with my fingers, trying to evenly smooth it down. This would be so much easier if my hair was wet but I can't risk the sickness that comes with walking around with a wet head on a night this frigid so I'll have to make due. I grab my hair, sliding the strands between the blades and clamping down on the blonde locks causing anything below an inch under my jawline to fall to the floor in a golden ring around me. Despite my attempts for a nice even cut the line of my hair is choppy and the bottom ends in a jagged fashion that I'm oddly content with.

Setting down scissors I touch the birds on my collar, one for each of the relatives I lost. I was offered a tattoo on my sixteenth birthday back in May and I found no better way to permanently mark myself than to honor my family. The tattoo was given to me in the basement of an old convenience store and I was actually a bit nervous when I saw the set up. The guy was kind though, a thick, burly man with a shaved head who went by the name of Bud.

I slip the new shirt over my head; the soft cotton feels sweet against my freezing skin. The black sleeves reach mid-palm and there are already little holes for my thumbs to push through. Next are the pants, thermal leggings that hug tight against my thin legs. I would've preferred looser pants but these were the best things I could conjure up in the past two weeks in the last foster home. I lace my black Chuck All-stars and tie the stained laces tightly before straightening and pulling the leather jacket that belonged to another girl my age at my last foster home. It's bigger than I expected, the excess leather droops where my slight frame doesn't hold it up. I take the necklace the once belonged to my mother from the nightstand, fumbling with the clasp; I slip the bird pendant off the chain and into one of the inner pockets of my jacket before quickly putting my mother's ring on the chain. I slip the necklace over my little blonde head and tuck it under the black material of my shirt.

Taking a good look at myself I discover that the hair cut changes my face a bit, making my eyes larger and balancing out my pointy nose. I zip up my jacket, grabbing my old leather satchel before retrieving the gallon of gasoline and oils that I've stole and hoarded from the old wardrobe, the creak of the armoire door sounds throughout the house. This place will easily go up in flames and I've left a little something to prove that I died in the fire.

Fake your death, it's the best way out I promise.

I don't know where I want to go. Maybe I'll head West where it's sunny all year round' and I don't have to deal with damn hypothermia. I will change my name defiantly, and hopefully I can get a job and a place to stay, just enough to live. I'm not looking for riches; I'm looking for happiness. Some stupid little voice in the back of my mind tells me I could find Caleb; try to get his parents to like me. Then there's the deepest, darkest, most hopeless part of my brain that says I should just go to WDCSFTM, make a few friends maybe and try to get a scholarship to a good collage. I usually ignore that part no matter how appealing a permanent home sounds as I stand here in the cold.

So I go, evenly spreading the gasoline throughout the building. The book of matches is taken out of my pocket, I know if I don't do this right I will die. I make my way down several flights of stairs, whistling and jumping over gaping holes as I go. This is a game, it's all a game. Once I'm outside I use the gasoline around the building, humming like a maniac. Striking a match everything seems to happen in slow motion.

I hit the ground running.

I want to put as much distance as I can between the building and I. There's a pop as the pressure of air changes and a sickening boom. My small body goes flying and I brace myself for the pain. The asphalt meets my shoulder, I grit my teeth and let out a little growl. On your feet I tell myself. I try to bring myself to my feet but I fall again. The bright lights of Chicago spin. I'm tired, so tired. Get up! My brain insists. I need to take this slow. I chew on air a few times, trying to pop me ears, before brining my body to my knees, using the grimy wall for support. It takes a half hour for me to finally make it my feet and I fear that someone may find me. Turning around I find that the building of rotten wood is still up in flames. Lights of red and blue bounce off the brick walls of the surrounding buildings and sirens wail in the distance.

I begin to walk, wobbling as I go. I manage to stagger across the street before collapsing again, leaning against the wall of an abandoned building for support. I feel something against my neck, touching it I find its blood; I follow the path to the inside of my ear. That can't be good. I rustle a piece of thin hair by my ear, finding that I can barely hear it move. The smell of blood is thick and my shoulder hurts badly. I was expecting injuries but not this mass pain. Now looking back not expecting to be hurt this seriously is stupid, I just blew up a building for God's sake. I bite the inside of my cheek and taste blood. Blood, blood, so much blood. The smell, the taste, the mere thought makes me queasy. The darkness is thick and black, so welcoming. I think I'm far enough away, I think I am I don't know, I don't know I can't think, the dark is strong, powerful, wanting to swallow me whole. I let it. Before I'm totally gone though I see someone a figure, so many things are buzzing through my head, fireworks of color bolt my vision. "Beatrice!" someone calls my name, a burst of like in the sickening darkness. This feels like a nightmare, such a lucid, painful, nightmare. I know that voice, I know that voice. "Beatrice, can you hear me?"

The voice belongs to Amar.

**hope you all enjoyed! Peace out Girl Scout! *peace sign and duck face* *Dan Howell voice* It was meant to be ironic please don't kill meh. **

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